A Leap For Rickman
by dot.dot.dot.deranged
Summary: Sam leaps into - who else?- Alan Rickman in a bid to save an obsessive fan girl from taking her infatuatuation a step to far, creating a story in which Sam is doomed to play the lead
1. Default Chapter

Sam Beckett's eyes snapped open and saw nothing but ceiling. Well, at least he wasn't in yet another sticky situation, in front of several college grads without any notion of the speech he was supposed to be saying, or being Dr Ruth or...  
  
Was he a woman? He looked around the room frantically. A mirror, a chair, a bed, pictures - lots of pictures, mostly hand drawn, and they didn't seem to be all drawn by the same person, although they did all have a bizarre similarity - the subject was the same. A tall, evenly built man with short, wavy hair. He lurched over to the mirror, almost tripping over the chair in the process.  
  
Sam liked what he saw. He was the man of the pictures reflected in the mirror. The man looked in his mid thirties, was clean shaven, with light brown hair, an aquiline nose and coffee brown eyes. The man reminded him of someone. He heard the Imaging Room door slide open and turned when he heard Al speak.  
  
"You won't believe this, Sam!" Al exclaimed excitedly.  
  
"Surprise me," Sam said dryly. "Who am I?"  
  
"You're Alan Rickman!" Al looked darkly at his friend when he blinked. "Terrorist in Die Hard? Jamie in Truly Madly Deeply? Damn your Swiss cheesed brain, Sam! It's like forgetting Cliff Richard!"  
  
"Who?"  
  
Al ignored him. "Alan Rickman was born 21st February 1946-"  
  
"That makes him 56! I thought he was in his mid-thirties!" Sam turned fully around to face his friend.  
  
"What can I say? He's young for his age. You're in New York - doing a play or something - today it is 3rd March." He slapped the handlink. "That can't be right," he muttered.  
  
"What?" Sam moved behind Al so he could see the handlink.  
  
"It says 2002. It can't be. The project's not even in 2002! Ziggy!" Al's voice rose to a shout. Sam went over to the chair where a white shirt and jeans were hung.  
  
"Never mind. Just tell me what I'm here to do," Sam said. He decided the shirt looked better with the cuffs open, and he didn't do the button up to the top. Nice.  
  
"Ah..Ziggy doesn't know yet, Sam. She's gone a bit star-struck, to tell you the truth. I'll go back and see if I can get anything out of her. Meanwhile, behave yourself, and for God's sakes don't do anything stupid." He was gone.  
  
Sam was left in the room - it looked like a hotel one, but not a grotty one - and he decided to go and have a look downstairs, or at least find out what he was meant to be doing. He took a set of keys off the table by the door and let himself out.  
  
A few minutes later he was down in the reception. It was glitzy, with marble and chandeliers and bustling visitors. It was then he noticed two people snaking towards him out of the crowd. The woman looked small and weasly with her blonde hair tied ridiculously high on her head, and she was followed by a man of a similar age and build. Something was wrong and Sam could feel his host's instincts of anger.  
  
"Mr Rickman! Mr Rickman! How is the Harry Potter movie coming along?" she asked breathlessly. "What's your opinion on Private Lives at the moment?" she quickly followed it up with, without giving him time to answer.  
  
"I.er..um." Sam stuttered. It was then his knight in shining armour arrived, as it were, and a tall, dark haired young woman jumped between him and the journalists like a Rottweiler.  
  
"Back off!" she snarled "If he want to do an interview he'll come to you." The blonde haired woman sniffed and marched out of the lobby, and once she was out of sight, the younger woman turned. Sam didn't know what to say. "I.um..thanks," he said.  
  
"My pleasure, Mr Rickman. I'm Sabrina," The young woman held out her hand and smiled reassuringly. "I read in an interview that you hated journalists. They shouldn't be allowed in this place anyway." She cast a reproving glance at the front desk. "I know this must sound incredibly forward, but I was wondering, if you're not busy and all, if you'd like to go for coffee?"  
  
"Coffee?" Sam sure felt like coffee right now. "Sure." He followed the girl - Sabrina - weaving in and out of passers by until they got to the street. The pavement wasn't as crowded as the lobby, surprisingly, and he noticed a coffee shop next to the hotel. Sabrina seemed to be heading there, so he followed her. "I've heard this place is great," Sabrina was saying over the noise of the crowd. She opened the door for him and he followed her in, sitting down at a table while she ordered two regular coffees.  
  
"So, what are you doing in, erm, New York?" Sam asked. He still hadn't got used to using this guy's voice. It was deep, but not too deep, smooth, but not without it's roughness, and it had an English accent which suited it perfectly. People in the coffee shop, he noticed, especially the women were turning to look at him with mesmeric expressions. He bought his attention back to the pretty girl on the other side of the table. "Funnily enough, coming to see you," she said, smiling. He looked at her blankly. "You know, with Private Lives?"  
  
"Oh," he replied, not really knowing at all. Private Lives was a Noel Coward play, some say one of his best. He'd studied it once in college, he remembered. It mainly was performed awfully by people - apparently there was no 'on stage chemistry' between the leads. That was all he remembered.  
  
"You know, it's got some of the best reviews this season," Sabrina continued, stirring the coffee. "It's sold out months in advance. I had to wait eight weeks to get a ticket." "Have you seen it before?" Sam asked, but the question wasn't answered. Two girls had approached the table, one taller than the other, the taller one wearing glasses. "Hi!" the shorter one squeaked.  
  
"Hellooo Alan!" the other girl added "Remember us?"  
  
Sam suddenly had a fleeting memory of a hyperactive girl brandishing a picture by a stage door, her companion merrily bouncing beside her. These two.  
  
"Y-yes," Sam said with a little trepidation. The shorter one went very pale and fainted, and the taller one quivered as if she was on the verge of doing so herself.  
  
"Um, would you mind signing my t-shirt, please?" she squeaked. Sam looked up, and Sabrina passed him a black pen.  
  
"Name?" Sam asked on a whim. He didn't know if she wanted it personalized. He hoped so.  
  
"Amanda," she said proudly. He wrote her name and then signed - it was as if he remembered every curve of every letter when he wrote it. It came out almost perfect and he stifled a sigh of relief. "Thank you!" she squeaked, and flounced off.  
  
Sabrina laughed. "That's the trouble with being world famous I guess," she smiled n the direction of the girls.  
  
"What is?" Sam was confused. Between having coffee with complete strangers and being accosted by two lunatics, this wasn't turning out to be a good day.  
  
"Barmy fan girls," she said. "You must get a lot of them."  
  
Sam didn't know what to do, and in a fit of inspiration he lifted his eyebrow. It seemed an entirely natural thing for his host to do, but the girl snorted into her coffee cup. She set it down on the table and burst out laughing. Just then the Imaging Room door opened and Al stepped out.  
  
"Whoa. Mad fan girls at this time in the morning? Sam, we gotta talk." Al said.  
  
"Um, back in a minute," Sam said, and scooted after Al. He headed towards the gents at the back of the shop.  
  
"Sam, do we always have to talk in toilets? It's perverted," Al moaned, looking at the rapidly-greening tiles. Sam glared darkly and Al stepped backwards. "You oughta stop doing that, Sam. That glare is a lethal weapon, I'm telling you. I've got enough of the real him doing it to me."  
  
"Perverted?" Sam snorted "And why is he glaring at you? No, let me guess. He thinks he's been kidnapped by aliens."  
  
"Nope. Worse. He thinks its fan girls," Al told him. Sam shook his head, and at that moment a cubicle door opened and a middle aged man stepped out and eyed Sam. "Who were you talking to?" he asked.  
  
"I was..er..practicing," Sam said hurriedly. "My lines."  
  
"Hey, that's right, you're that Alan Rickman guy, aren't you? Well done, man, I think you're great." The man patted his shoulder and went out, and Al walked along the line of cubicles.  
  
"There's no-one else here. Anyway, the Zigster is still star-struck, but I did find out something from her."  
  
"Enlighten me," Sam said dryly. Al's eyes widened before he continued. "There's this girl, Sabrina-"  
  
"I've met her. She's out there," Sam pointed his thumb in the direction of the door. "She's sixteen, and thinks she's madly in love with you. Alan, that is. In three days time three other fan girls are going to murder her." 


	2. Innocence

Sam was shocked. "That sweet little girl?"  
  
Al looked serene. "Yeah." He tapped the handlink, which squealed indignantly. "The authorities put it down to jealousy. That 'sweet little girl' is a member of a society tracking Alan's every move and every action. They have surveillance everywhere, and where they don't have that, the have spies." Catching Sam's incredulous expression, he continued. "Oh, they aren't out to hurt him. They never laid a finger on the guy and he barely knew they existed. They were just protecting him..in a stalking way," he added. Sam leaned back on the mouldy tiles of the wall.  
  
"They were beginning to think things were too quiet and sent in, successfully, a worm. That was Sabrina. She was meant to befriend him and ensure nothing happened to him before he finished the season on Broadway. According to the authorities, the society got jealous and not realizing that they'd hurt him by doing so, sent in one of the leaders to kill her. It worked, but during the trial in which they found out the killer was insane, the entire society vanished off the face of the earth. There was nothing to say they'd ever been there. No birth certificates, no bank statements, nothing." He paused. "Weird, isn't it?"  
  
Sam nodded in assent. "What do I do? Get rid of her?"  
  
Al shook his head. "You couldn't. She's a woman on a mission."  
  
Sam sighed. This was impossible. Impossible. How on earth would he handle it? Even with Al here, it was going to be the worst Leap yet. Even being a chimp had been easier than this. Al looked at his watch. "Ooh, have to go, Tina's going to kill me, I have to help her with a little..erm.chocolate idea."  
  
Sam raised an eyebrow as the Imaging Chamber door whooshed shut. *Thanks, Al,* he thought. *You're a great friend*  
  
He went back into the café. Sabrina was still sitting there, now talking to the two fan girls from earlier, one of which had recovered from the fainting earlier and was now dangled over the back of the seat. All three looked up when he sat down, Amanda and the one who fainted looked vaguely wistful.  
  
"Um, hey," he said softly. He slapped himself for not realizing the power of the Voice, because the fainting-prone fan girl went unconscious again, sliding over the seat to make a bundle on the floor. He looked down apologetically.  
  
"So," Amanda said, sliding seductively over the seat and resting her feet on her unconscious friend's head. "How are you, Alan?"  
  
"I'm.er..fine." Sam answered. Was he fine? He hoped so. Being abandoned by your best friend at crucial moment doesn't do wonders for your self- esteem.  
  
"How's Private Lives coming along?" Amanda continued. Sam scratched an imaginary itch on his nose. "Um.."  
  
Amanda was looking peeved at Sabrina. Her eyebrows were narrowed and her eyes were dark through the anger on her face. Sabrina was sitting back - maybe a little closer to him than he'd remembered, but with a passive expression on her face. Amanda stood abruptly and smiled sweetly in Sam's direction, and he returned the smile, distinctly aware of the unfounded anger - no, just plain evilness, in her eyes. Was she a schitzophrenic? No, he thought. She was to normal the rest of the time. But she did have something about her that he was apprehensive of.  
  
"It was lovely meeting you, Alan," the girl said softly, holding out her hand. He shook it, eyes riveted on her expression. She was normal, her eyelashes fluttered a bit at the touch of his skin, but she didn't become a raving schitzo. So far, so good. Not the killer-to-be. Amanda picked up her friend from the floor and dragged her out the door.  
  
Sabrina was glaring at her back as she left.  
  
  
  
***  
  
See? I finally wrote another chapter. I had really bad plot block (writers block but worse) and couldn't remember in what direction I was making the story go. Anyway, since people haven't even BEGAN to review Requited Love properly (it once had 113 reviews. Now is has ......drumroll please....five.) This will be the story I'm putting all my effort into, so expect more updates, juicily fucked-up plotlines (Ah! My forte!) and lots more AR. Maybe even a scene in the Imaging Chamber with the real AR? Even behind the scenes at the Society's Operation Rickman? Mmm, so words, so little meaning. Well, anyway, I'd better get back to writing the next chapter. Honestly, please keep reviewing, it means a lot to be, and not because I'm egocentric, everyone likes to know if their hard work is paying off, peoples. If I don't get reviews, I can't write. Harsh world, isn't it?  
  
*Snape muse; Noooo... Not with me in it....* *Wil; {dribbles} True, true.*  
  
Thanks for reading, even if you don't review :)  
  
Wil. 


	3. Dude?

The man inside Sam Beckett was pissed off.  
  
Alan Rickman sat swinging his legs off the edge of the cot impatiently. Was there no limit to obsessive fan girls? Obviously not. And the weird looks he kept getting from the pretty woman - Dr Beeks, he remembered - were scaring him. What with weird dress senses, alien-fan-girl abductions and disembodied female voices, he decided it was just going to be one of those days.  
  
As if on command, the man with the odd dress sense came in. Alan decided it must be their leader. He hadn't expected him to be male though, he always thought that the strange, secret-service looking young women who were always looking at him from high buildings were led by a woman. Unless, of course, he was a woman, which meant he was the cross-dressing leader of the strange people. Very odd indeed. He decided the best course of action would be to glare menacingly, which he did. The cross dressing man immediately broke his gaze and looked away.  
  
"Uh, hi, I'm Al," he said. Alan stopped glaring. At least he wasn't hostile. He was still wary of the man, though, even though Al looked up and tried his best to smile.  
  
"I'm Alan," he said. It was still formal, but at least it was a reply. He'd always hated formality. Small-talk. Bleurgh. A pause. "Why are you keeping me here?" *Well,* the little mini-me inside him said sharply. *Don't SQUEAK, will you??* Alan blanched and told mini-me to shut up, he didn't need his input.  
  
Al sighed. "We're not keeping you here," he said softly. The sound of the English accent on Sam's lips was very strange.  
  
The man on the cot raised his eyebrows. "Can I leave then?"  
  
"No." It came out stronger than intended. He prepared himself for an explosion. These artistic types could be like that sometimes.  
  
It never came. Alan looked pissed off, extremely pissed off, but not as if he was about to rush over to him and throttle him brainless. He was a pretty nice bloke after all. Likeable. He actually felt sorry for the guy.  
  
"Listen, Alan, I'm sorry. There's been a mix up. My best friend has switched places with you to sort out something that's going to go wrong in your life. It's only temporary and you'll be back home soon."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with my life," Alan cut in defensively.  
  
"Something is about to go wrong with it," Al corrected.  
  
Another pause, then Alan looked up sharply. "I'll say. I've got performances for the rest of the night. Aren't the audience going to notice that the lead actor has changed suddenly?"  
  
"Uh, no," Al felt so awkward. "You see, you've not really switched places........." He saw the exasperated look on what would have been his best friend's face. Harsh. "Uh, it's more like your soul has switched places, really."  
  
"Oh don't give me that science fiction shit, it's too early in the morning," Alan snapped. Al took a step back before continuing.  
  
"So he looks like you, and you look like him," he finished quietly. Alan was glaring at him now. The man held out his hands and looked at the back of them, turning them over. "These are my hands, not anyone else's," he said icily. Al turned around the mirror in the corner, watching Alan take tentative steps towards it. He took one long look at the mirror and fainted.  
  
"Damn," Al muttered.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
11;35am, Monday 23rd May 2002  
  
The Rickmaniac Society Headquarters  
  
Wil's office.  
  
Wil was very pissed off. She was dressed in her usual black tank top and combats tucked into regulation army boots, her hair yanked backwards into a tight ponytail with wisps of light brown hair escaping over her face. The said regulation army boots were crossed on the table, the sounds of Smells Like Teen Spirit and Rammstien's Sonne playing very, very loudly from the room behind her. She pulled the hat down so it shadowed her, knowing that if she glared hard enough she could pass for AR, thus making Gumlick (who was sitting int the corner boredly) faint once again.  
  
"What do you mean she was looking at him weirdly?" she asked dangerously.  
  
Amanda had to admit she never did like the insane Brit, and resented the fact Brits or Germans always had to be the bad guys (or gals) in stuff like this. She wanted to be the bad guy for once. Damn her.  
  
"Well," she found herself saying. "Sort of wanting, dribbling sort of thing."  
  
Wil looked blankly at her. "So, frankly, no different from normal then," she remarked dryly.  
  
"No," she said after a pause."More like, um...possesively..." Amanda filled in. Wil sat up and leaned over the desk (which, incidentally, was carved out of wood and if seen from a certain angle bared an uncanny resemblance to AR's finely crafted rear end)  
  
"Are you wasting my time?"  
  
"No," Amanda said. "She was looking at him possessively. As if he was under her control."  
  
Wil sat back, and after a pause for thought, tipped back her hat and glared fully at Gumlick. After around six seconds of the poor girl's eyes getting wider and wider, she fainted and started spasming on the floor before lying stock still and going very white.  
  
"What the hell was that for?" Amanda asked indignantly.  
  
"She was thinking bad thoughts," Wil said evilly, her eyes glittering insanely from the naked bulb in the ceiling.  
  
"Uh, well, oooook then." Amanda said, stepping towards the door. She opened it and was about to step outside.  
  
"Oh, and Mandy, do keep an eye on our worm," Wil ordered, never looking up from the Alan Rickman Galaxy Quest comic that one of the other Rickmaniacs (Hestia, she remembered) had drawn for everyone. She also remembered that the particular one was the one with the naked AR in. "I wouldn't want her to get into any.....trouble."  
  
Wil was such a weird bitch. 


End file.
